


Tutorial

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD - Freeform, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Drug Use, First Time Blow Jobs, Hand Feeding, Hate Crimes, Homophobia, Homosexuality, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, Laudanum, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Naked Cuddling, Prostitution, Sherlock is a fast learner, Slash, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Violence, john is not a saint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:39:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memories of our times together and desire for more were always there, floating between us like a cloud of his pipe smoke, hazy and indefinite and leaving lingering evidence on our clothes; in our hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tutorial

**Author's Note:**

> This follows DISPATCH BOX: Manners

_The dispatch box of Dr John Watson contained still more highly personal documents. Some were peppered with his companion's often acerbic remarks and others were not, but all were worn and apparently had been read many, many times._  
  
“What happened?” I dropped my newspaper in my shock.  
  
Sherlock Holmes looked as if he had been run over by a hansom cab, horse and all.  
  
I sprang up and dashed over to help him off with his coat and hat, both of which were filthy. “Come sit down; I have to examine you.” I drew him over to one of the chairs at our dining table and helped him sit. He grimaced a bit when he sat.  
  
I started with his head. There was a nasty-looking contusion on his left temple and a purplish-red mark under his right eye. “How is your eyesight? Any double or blurred vision?” I ran my fingers through his hair, searching for lumps. I looked intently into his eyes and examined his ears.  
  
“No.”  
  
His bottom lip was split and bleeding. I could tell that speaking was painful.  
  
“Any loose teeth?  
  
He shook his head.  
  
“Cuts in your mouth?”  
  
He nodded.  
  
I removed his tie. He reached up to unbutton his waistcoat himself, but the knuckles on both hands were battered and bleeding and he winced as he attempted to manipulate the buttons. “I’ll do it,” I told him softly. “Sit still.” I carefully removed his waistcoat, pulled down his braces, and gently got his shirt and vest off. He gasped as I did so. “Ribs?” I asked, a bit unnecessarily.  
  
“Mmm. Yes.”  
  
I prodded as carefully as I could. Yes—there. At least two ribs were cracked, a rapidly-darkening bruise forming over the spot. “I’m going to have to wrap those,” I informed him. He nodded. I hesitated a few seconds. I would have to be indelicate. “Any injuries below your waist?” I finally asked, phrasing it as politely as I could.  
  
He nodded.  
  
It occurred to me to lock the door that led out to the corridor; one never knew when Mrs Hudson might come up. That done, I helped him stand and somewhat hesitantly removed his trousers. “Under these?” I asked, indicating his drawers. He nodded and shut his eyes. “I’m sorry about this,” I told him sincerely as I drew them down.  
  
This time _I_ winced. The boot print was vivid on the pale skin of his buttocks. [A note is written sideways along the margin of this page in Sherlock’s hand; it reads ‘You were very gentle, and I am sorry you had to see all that.’]  
  
“I’m not going to be able to do much for you. I’ll wrap your ribs and clean up the cuts. We should get some cold cloths on the bruises. Come into your bedroom and let’s get a clean nightshirt on you. That will be more comfortable.”  
  
I helped him into his room; he was—not surprisingly—walking extremely stiffly.  
  
I wrapped his ribs and settled a nightshirt on him. I carefully cleaned the cuts on his hands and covered them with sticking plasters. I moistened a cloth in his washbowl and delicately wiped away the blood on his lip. I finally rinsed it and folded it and applied it gently to his temple. During most of my ministrations he kept his eyes shut, allowing me to do what I wished to him.  
  
I rang the bell, remembering to unlock the door to the corridor. Mrs Hudson popped in. “Did you need something, Doctor?” she asked pleasantly.  
  
“Sherlock… Mr Holmes has had a bit of an accident. Would you please bring us some ice chips?”  
  
“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, her hand to her mouth. “Is he badly injured?”  
  
“He’s bruised and has two broken ribs,” I told her.  
  
She looked thoughtful for a moment. “He got someone angry at him again, didn’t he?” she commented. I shrugged in acquiescence. She knew his tendency to irritate people as well as I did. “He really has to learn to be less rude. I’ll go get your ice.” She bustled back down the stairs.  
  
“Thank you,” I told her upon her return. She handed me the bowl of ice she had chipped from the large block in her icebox and I brought it into the bedroom. Sherlock was exactly as I had left him, propped up in his bed, his eyes shut. “Lie flat,” I instructed, helping him slide down onto his pillows. I wrapped the chips in several cloths and carefully applied each packet separately to his various injuries—his eye and temple, his hands, and his ribs.  
  
Finally I had done everything that I could. I brushed his dishevelled curls off his forehead and cupped my hand under his chin. I had to ask. “God, Sherlock. What happened?”  
  
He opened his uninjured eye and looked straight at me. “A minor altercation,” he stated calmly.  
  
“Minor? Sherlock, you’ve got broken ribs and a boot print on your… I strongly suspect it was more than minor.” I was a bit more strident than perhaps was appropriate. He shrugged and looked away from me. “I’m sorry,” I added, chagrined at my outburst. “I admit I’m a bit shaken. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”  
  
I covered him with a blanket. I then sat at the foot of his bed and patted his leg gently. “Now, please tell me how this occurred.”  
  
“I’m not entirely sure,” he admitted. “I seem to have angered a man to whom I was speaking.”  
  
“That seems a bit of an understatement, Sherlock,” I pointed out.  
  
He sighed deeply and then winced as the movement aggravated his ribs. “Perhaps. Yes.”  
  
I sighed as well. “Please just tell me the entire story.”  
  
“Very well. I have been considering… our activities; the activities that are not for public disclosure.”  
  
Ah. “Go on,” I encouraged.  
  
“I had questions.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“I did a bit of research, and I learnt a great deal about some things.”  
  
“How did you do this research?” I wasn’t sure I would like the answer to that question, but I felt compelled to ask nonetheless.  
  
“I went down to Whitechapel and I asked,” he confessed. He sounded so innocent and sincere that I almost laughed.  
  
“You went to Whitechapel to research… frigging?”  
  
“Yes,” he replied earnestly. “Among other things. Why? Was that wrong?”  
  
“No. It seems quite logical,” I soothed. I did not want him to become upset.  
  
“I thought so,” he agreed. “The women there were quite informative.” He frowned now.  
  
“What happened?” I asked. I squeezed his ankle through the blanket.  
  
“I understand about the women. I know what they do, obviously. You and I have been down there many times, after all. I mean that I understood the physical actions. Well, no. Not really. I understood that the women did things to the men that were enjoyable, and the men paid money for it. I know that you’ve gone down there more than once, and when you come back you’re always quite relaxed and want me to play for you. I wasn’t entirely sure exactly what they were doing, or what you were feeling, but after that morning, I had a vague idea.”  
  
He coughed and winced and I ran my hand over his leg in a comforting manner.  
  
“But then after the second time, and at Mycroft’s”—and here his voice broke a bit—“I realised that I was missing something rather important, so I went there to do research, and most of them didn’t mind—I was generous with my shillings, which helped—but there was one man who was rather adamant in stating that I was a ‘deviant’ and that I had better leave before he got a policeman.”  
  
I found myself staring at his split lip. It would heal quickly. I wanted it to heal quickly. I wanted to capture it with my own lips right that very moment and soothe the wound with my tongue; to taste the bit of blood that now appeared on it.  
  
“Your lip is bleeding again,” I whispered, my voice husky with emotion. “Let me…” I re-dampened one of the cloths in the basin and gently daubed at it until it was clean again.  
  
“Thank you.” He almost smiled, but winced at the pull on his wound. “I suppose I am fortunate that he was not a very skilled fighter.”  
  
“You did worse to him, didn’t you?”  
  
He nodded. Sherlock was an elegant and strong fighter, especially in close quarters, and I did not wish to imagine what injuries he had inflicted upon his tormenter. “They took him away in an ambulance,” he mentioned, almost as an afterthought.  
  
“Did he learn your name? Were there any constables?” I was concerned that it would become a legal matter.  
  
“No, and the people who were there—who saw it—assured me that they would not say anything. Apparently this particular man is known to be a bit of a bully. They were actually rather delighted that someone had finally bested him.”  
  
“But he was arguing with you because—was it just because you were asking the women those questions?”  
  
“Not exactly,” he admitted.  
  
“Sherlock, I think I need to know exactly what you were doing and saying to cause that man to abuse you so horribly.” I spoke sternly to hide the concern that I was feeling.  
  
He shifted, wincing. “Very well,” he sighed. “I had done as much research with the women as I thought useful. They suggested—quite helpfully—that I speak to a few specific men. They brought me to them.”  
  
I held up my hand. “Sherlock,” I asked cautiously. “These men—were they… erm…”  
  
“Many of them were quite young,” he described blithely. “Some were quite handsome. Others not quite so much. Some wore theatrical make-up, and they all dressed rather flamboyantly.”  
  
My heart sank. I knew exactly what sort of young men he was describing.  
  
“So you were—“  
  
“I was just asking them some questions, John,” he assured me. He seemed a bit bewildered at the stress in my voice. “Most of them were quite forthcoming. Extremely helpful. Some were quite… attentive.”  
  
“Did any of them offer to… demonstrate?” I almost didn’t want to hear his response.  
  
“Well, yes, they did.” He looked at me closely with his one good eye.  
  
“Sherlock,” I said quietly. “You do understand that what they do—what they were offering to do—is illegal?”  
  
He nodded. “Of course I do, John. I was very clear with them that I was only seeking information. Surely that is not against the law.”  
  
“No, that is not,” I admitted. “I take it that was the time at which your opponent appeared.”  
  
“Yes. I tried speaking with him first, but he was quite aggressive.”  
  
“What did the… young men do?”  
  
“They shouted at him. Told him to go away. They were obviously well-acquainted with him and his belligerence.” He touched the cut on his lip and winced.  
  
I considered his pale face for a bit. “Let’s get those wet cloths off you,” I suggested. “I’ll get you more ice later.” I busied myself tidying him up.  
  
“I’m sorry about all this, John,” he said quietly, handing me the cloth from his eye. “I just wanted to—”  
  
“Never mind right now. I’m going to see about some tea. Do you think you could manage some cake with your lip?”  
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
I rose, patting his leg one more time before I left his room, taking the wet cloths with me. Once out of his sight, I took a deep breath. I was conflicted. I wanted to explain to him that he had to be much, much more discrete about his—enquiries—but I also very much wanted to kiss him—and those two things were mutually exclusive.  
  
I needed to stop thinking about him. I bustled down the stairs. Mrs Hudson looked up in surprise from her book. “Doctor? How is he?”  
  
“He’ll live,” I replied somewhat gruffly. She shook her head in mock disapproval and rose, taking the dirty linen from me.  
  
“I suppose you want some tea.”  
  
“Please.”  
  
“Cake or bread and butter?”  
  
“He wants cake.”  
  
“I’ll be up with a tray in a bit. Go on, now.”  
  
I headed back up the stairs.  
  
*  
  
To my great relief, we did not immediately resume our conversation. Sherlock ended up being distracted by an intriguing cypher in the agony column of the newspaper and we found ourselves engaged in a rather peculiar case. Despite his injuries, he managed to impress everyone else by clambering up a drainpipe simply to demonstrate that it could be done.  
  
I, however, was _not_ impressed. When he descended I could tell that he was experiencing a great deal of pain, particularly from his ribs, and I was furious with him for having been so foolish.  
  
*  
  
“I’m fine, John,” he insisted for the third time. We had gotten back to Baker Street just as the sun was rising. I was cold and exhausted and looking forward to one of Mrs Hudson’s full breakfasts and then several hours dozing in front of the fire. I was also quite eager to get Sherlock to rest. I could tell simply by his breathing that he was in a great deal of pain. During his exertions he had clearly been trying not to take deep breaths.  
  
“You are not fine. You’ve aggravated all of your injuries,” I snapped back. “You are going to have some breakfast, and then you are going to bed.”  
  
He glanced up from the cigarette he had just lit. He grimaced as it touched his still-raw lip.  
  
“You do know that you are a great idiot,” I commented, coolly watching him as he attempted to sit in his favourite armchair. It was a challenge—between the ribs and the bruise on his buttock he clearly could not find a comfortable position.  
  
“Possibly,” he agreed, frowning and puffing cautiously on his cigarette.  
  
I had to laugh. He was so ridiculous sometimes.  
  
He was not going to manage sitting at the dining table, I realised. “Stretch out on the sofa,” I instructed. I arranged a chair to hold his plate and watched him covertly as we both ate. He couldn’t chew properly, he held his silverware gingerly due to his burst knuckles, his injured eye was swollen and watering—  
  
“Enough,” I finally commanded. He glowered at me. “Let me help you.”  
  
He sighed and turned his fork over to me.  
  
I managed to get a bit more cake into him. From my angle—seated on the chair in front of the sofa, holding his plate—I was able to direct his fork into his mouth without brushing against the wound on his lip. “When you’ve had enough, I expect you to get into bed. All right?”  
  
“Yes, John.” He was pouting like a child.  
  
“That’s better. Behave yourself and I’ll come in and read to you.”  
  
*  
  
An hour later, I let my voice fade to nothing and peered over the newspaper. I was perched at the foot of his bed. As I had promised, after I had gotten some food into him, I had helped him into his room and gotten him changed and into bed, and then retrieved the newspaper, settling comfortably down on his lovely mattress. After I got him to sleep, I was most certainly going to allow myself a nap as well.  
  
It had been quite effective—Mrs Hudson’s hearty breakfast, a soft nightshirt, the warm blankets I tucked over him, and my rather purposeful selection of the less interesting portions of the newspaper had finally all had their effect, and Sherlock Holmes was asleep.  
  
As quietly as possible, I lowered the newspaper and rose.  
  
“John.”  
  
Damn.  
  
“I thought you were asleep.”  
  
“I will sleep. I promise. I just wanted…”  
  
He paused, which puzzled me. “What is it?” I prodded.  
  
He raised his head a bit, and I could see that he was smiling—truly smiling. It was pure and sweet and made him look ten years younger. Most importantly, it was that rare and cherished thing—the smile that he only ever offered to me.  
  
“I just wanted to say thank you, John.”  
  
“Go to sleep, Sherlock.”  
  
I fled.  
  
*  
  
I closed the door to my bedroom firmly. I closed both doors firmly—the one leading to our sitting room and—more importantly—the one leading to Sherlock’s bedroom. I pulled off my coat, not caring that it crumpled as I threw it onto the floor. I covered my face with my hands.  
  
All right, I said to myself. Just calm down. Try not to think about it, I told myself. Try not to think about how I had felt when I had seen Sherlock’s brilliant, innocent smile. There was no escaping it, though. I was very much aware of what I had felt; what I had longed to do. What I still longed to do.  
  
I had wanted to hold that glowing face in my hands and kiss that beautiful mouth.  
  
And then I wanted to do a great deal more.  
  
*  
  
Fortunately, upon waking the mad man [“mad man” is lined out and “consulting detective” is written in] had quite literally dreamed up a new experiment. Desperate for a distraction myself, I devoted my time to being his assistant.  
  
And then there was a rather grim case in a bakery. Fortunately he was healed enough by then to demonstrate just how a full-grown man could be fit into the large oven. And then that was over as well. We were still mostly experiencing typical winter weather, but there were a few days that brought hints of spring—for which I was eternally grateful because I was able to open the windows for a few minutes at a time to air out the place.  
  
Surprisingly, despite being in a lull between cases, Sherlock had been in a delightful mood. In fact, apparently inspired by our most recent case, he had decided that he wanted to know how Mrs Hudson made some of his favourite treats, and had somehow convinced her to give him some cooking lessons. Baking, according to both of them, was quite like chemistry—unlike many other forms of cooking, it required a great deal of precision. It appealed to his analytical nature and, to be blunt, got him out from underfoot. I used the time to organise the sitting room—over the winter it had become an absolute tip.  
  
*  
  
“John!” I had heard him thundering up the seventeen steps, so I was not startled by him bursting into our sitting room. “You must try these.”  
  
Mrs Hudson had taken his request quite seriously and had been working him from simple recipes up to some fairly complicated ones. He was, of course, paying for the more exotic ingredients. He was, apparently and to our great surprise, a diligent student, eagerly explaining to her the science behind the combinations of ingredients. They made a surprisingly good team. I could tell that he was beginning to wear her out a bit, but, like with all of his other manias, he would lose interest soon. I admit that, in the meantime, I was enjoying the fruits of his labours. [A note in Sherlock’s hand indicates “Of course I was a great success. Am I not always?”]  
  
He flourished a silver tray piled with…  
  
“What’s that, Sherlock?” I asked in delight. The entire house had smelled quite delicious for a few weeks, and I had thoroughly enjoyed each and every one of their “lessons.”  
  
“Almond cakes,” he said proudly.  
  
I smiled affectionately at him. Of all sweets—and he was an aficionado—almond anything was generally his favourite. I put down the papers that I was holding (I had been catching up on some correspondence and was standing at my desk, organising my things) and turned toward him. “Here…” he came over to me and picked up one of the bar-shaped sweets delicately. Sensing his intent, I obediently opened my mouth. I sank my teeth into the offered treat. It was, not surprisingly, delicious, and after chewing, I praised him.  
  
“You have become quite proficient,” I complimented him. “And you’ve been so lovely these few weeks. How would you like it if we went out for a walk and then some dinner? The weather’s getting quite mild.”  
  
“Honestly…” he paused, uncharacteristically searching for his words.  
  
“Honestly…?” I prompted.  
  
“Honestly I was thinking of something else entirely,” he continued thoughtfully. He carefully placed the tray he was holding on top of the papers that I had just deposited on my desk.  
  
“Such as?” I admit that I was puzzled and curious—what did he have in mind?  
  
“You’ve been enjoying the results of my cooking lessons,” he offered slowly.  
  
I nodded. “Yes, very much,” I agreed.  
  
“And you generally are impressed when my experiments lead to something useful.”  
  
“Of course.” I was telling the absolute truth—upon his statement I immediately recalled our very first meeting, during which he revealed that he had developed a method of detecting haemoglobin that was absolutely brilliant for the detection of crimes.  
  
“I’ve been thinking about some of the other lessons that I’ve had, and I’ve been considering the circumstances under which they might be applied.”  
  
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?” I was baffled.  
  
“John, I want to—” And suddenly he was pressing up against me; backing me up so I was perched on the edge of my desk. Insinuating himself so that our legs were intertwined.  
  
And then he was kissing me and the only way I can describe it is hungrily and I admit that— immediately and quite eagerly—I was kissing him back.  
  
That part was fine. More than fine. I had never really had my lewd thoughts about him entirely out of my mind. I had been able to push them aside—to focus on other things—but memories of our times together and desire for more were always there, floating between us like a cloud of his pipe smoke, hazy and indefinite and leaving lingering evidence on our clothes; in our hair.  
  
We kissed for several minutes. He pulled himself away from my mouth at one point and kissed—as lightly as a butterfly—across my cheek and nuzzled into the hollow beneath my ear. I reached up and ran my fingers through his hair, untamed by any oil, and enjoyed the warmth of his skin under my palm. He abandoned my neck and returned to my mouth, licking delicately at my lips and tongue and making the sweetest of sounds.  
  
“John,” he finally whispered, pulling himself away.  
  
“Mmm?” was all that I could manage. I slid my hands down his sides and rested them in the small of his back.  
  
And then his large hand was pressing against me—against my trousers. Against the evidence that I was finding this quite stimulating. “I want to… will you let me?” he murmured.  
  
“Let you?” I asked indistinctly. My hips pushed forward into his hand of their own accord and I believe that I groaned a bit at the sensation. “Let you what?”  
  
For an answer he quite suddenly unfastened my trousers, seeking my cock with his nimble fingers. I was a bit shocked—we were in our sitting room, after all, in the middle of the afternoon—and did nothing to prevent him.  
  
“What are… you doing… my love?” I managed, my breathing becoming somewhat laboured.  
  
“Just let me…” And then he dropped to his knees and drew my cock out of my drawers and I suddenly realised exactly what he intended to do.  
  
I shoved him to the ground.  
  
*  
  
“What?” he demanded, looking utterly baffled.  
  
“No, Sherlock. You cannot do that!” I abruptly tidied myself, refastening my trousers with rather agitated jerks on the buttons.  
  
“Why not? Those men told me how.”  
  
“What men? Oh, God. You mean those…” I hesitated before using the vulgar term. “… those mary-anns in Whitechapel.”  
  
“Yes. They said it was one of the loveliest things ever and they told me just what to do. I just want to… John. I just want to make you feel nice.” He was distraught and confused and still sitting on the floor where my shove had sprawled him.  
  
I wanted nothing more than to sink down on to the floor with him, take him in my arms, and kiss all those horrid feelings away. I shut my eyes for a moment. When I opened them again he was staring angrily at me.  
  
“Get up,” I sighed, offering him a hand up—an offer that was rebuffed with a brusque wave. “Come sit down. I think we need to talk about this.”  
  
Huffing, he rose and followed me to the fireplace, where we sat in our respective easy chairs, facing one another. His brows were drawn down and his mouth was tight. I am sure that I looked equally stern and sombre. We glared at one another for a minute.  
  
“Well? Talk,” he finally commanded.  
  
“Sherlock,” I started as calmly as I could. “We have discussed this before. We cannot pursue these… actions. They are illegal and deviant and could quite frankly ruin our lives.”  
  
“But you wanted to. You want to. I saw it. I _felt_ it,” he protested.  
  
“Yes, you’re absolutely correct. I do want to. In fact, there is nothing that I would like more than to continue with exactly what you proposed. But wanting to do something does not mean that one always acts upon it.” He said nothing, but I noted a slight change in his expression. His lips, which had been pressed into a hard line, now softened a bit, and the angry crease between his brows lessened. Encouraged, I expanded my explanation. “Look, you know that there is a rather dramatic difference between wanting to kill someone and actually doing it, correct?”  
  
He nodded. His eyes glistened oddly.  
  
“This is very much the same thing. I would like to think that both you and I are moral men. Yes, we are clearly both feeling an impulse to do something that is not just illegal but morally wrong. I would like to think that we are strong enough—moral enough—to refrain.”  
  
He fidgeted, twisting his long fingers together in his lap and staring down at them.  
  
“Do you understand what I am telling you?” My stomach felt twisted and painful.  
  
“Is it…” he finally attempted, not raising his eyes. “Is it the acts themselves that are wrong? Or is it because of who we are?”  
  
“Sherlock,” I said gently. “Please look at me.” He forced himself to look up. “What you proposed to do today—and yes what we’ve already done—those acts are meant for just men and women to do together—it’s only for married people to do—with each other, I mean. Men and women who are not married, or not married to each other, are not supposed to do things like that. Neither are two men.”  
  
He made a rather anguished sound and ran his fingers through his hair. “Why?” he demanded. “What do a piece of paper and a few words from a clergyman do that makes it all right for that man and that woman to make each other feel—so nice—that no one else can enjoy?”  
  
“I don’t know,” I replied honestly.  
  
“John, did you _want_ me to do to you what I… proposed?”  
  
I considered my reply carefully. I had to be honest with him. “Yes. Very much so,” I supplied quietly. “I understand that it can be quite wonderful.”  
  
His eyes opened wide. “Do you mean you’ve never… that no one has ever…?”  
  
I shook my head and smiled a bit sadly at him.  
  
“But you were married. I thought you said that those things were for a husband and wife to do.”  
  
“Yes, I did, but simply being married doesn’t mean that those things always happen.”  
  
He looked at me keenly. “Is that why you moved back here and Mary went to live with her—who was it?—cousin in New York?”  
  
“One of the reasons, yes,” I admitted.  
  
“I don’t understand! Please explain it!” he implored desperately. “Why is it that just because of a piece of paper, you and Mary were supposed to make each other feel nice, but you didn’t, and because you and I don’t have a piece of paper, but we both have…” He fumbled for the word “…the same organ, even though we want to make each other feel splendid, we can’t?”  
  
“I’m afraid so.” I didn’t want to look at him any longer. I didn’t want to hear the betrayal and confusion in his voice. “I can’t explain it. I’m sorry.” I meant that quite sincerely.  
  
“This is madness,” he snarled. “None of this makes any sense. I can understand why murdering someone is wrong, or robbing them. Those things are hurtful, and no one should act on those impulses. But what I’m proposing isn’t hurtful at all—not if you want it and I want it. It’s not hurting anyone. I just want…” and the glistening in his beautiful eyes overflowed and a single tear slid down his chiselled cheek. Then he pulled his legs up onto the chair and, wrapping his arms around his knees, he dropped his head so I couldn’t see his expression any longer.  
  
My own throat was tight. This conversation could not continue.  
  
He moaned.  
  
“What’s wrong?” I demanded instantly.  
  
“My head…” he nearly sobbed. “It’s my head.”  
  
Damn. It was one of his wretched headaches—the ones that he only ever got when he was distressed. I felt horrible for having let our talk become so upsetting. “Sherlock,” I implored. I slid out of my chair and crouched in front of him. “Please look at me.”  
  
He hesitantly raised his head. He was pale and biting his lips.  
  
“It’s a bad one, isn’t it?” I asked, gently laying a hand on his head.  
  
He whimpered and nodded. I slid my hand down to his cheek and he nuzzled into it, seeking relief.  
  
“Do you want something for it?” I offered. I didn’t ordinarily like dosing him, but the suddenness and severity of the attack left me no other option. He nodded again, the soft skin of his cheek brushing across my palm, and I went to retrieve the laudanum.  
  
*  
  
I crept into his room. He was finally sound asleep. It had been a horrible evening.  
  
The headache coupled with the laudanum had made him feel ill, and he had been sick. Fortunately I had sensed that that would happen and was prepared with a basin for him, but the incident made him even more miserable. I got him into his bed and put a cold, wet cloth on his forehead. He tossed and turned restlessly, moaning in pain and anguish. I prayed for him to calm down and sleep.  
  
Finally—thankfully—he had.  
  
I felt miserable myself. I was angry at myself for having gotten him so upset. My explanations of—my objections to—his actions had been the correct thing to do, and yet they were hurtful. Then I began to think about what he had said—about actions that were hurtful and those that were not.  
  
What he had wanted to do certainly fell into the latter category.  
  
I had, truthfully, never experienced it. All my experiences with women had been limited to either their hands or, in the case of my wife, a completed but oddly unfulfilling action that left me dissatisfied and her weeping. I had never felt someone’s mouth…  
  
Damn.  
  
So there I was, standing by his bed. He had been asleep for about three hours, and all I wanted was for my darling to be awake and well and to be kissing—  
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
His voice startled me. I had thought that he was still sound asleep.  
  
“Please what?” I managed to gasp.  
  
“Please kiss me,” he murmured, his eyes opening. “That’s what you want to do, is it not?”  
  
“Very much so.” He stared at me, his expression unreadable. “What?” I finally demanded.  
  
“After everything you said? Everything we just spent the afternoon arguing about? You seemed quite adamant a few hours ago that we couldn’t continue.” He was justifiably confused.  
  
“Yes, after everything I said, I still want to. I admit that I am being terribly contradictory, but right now, all I can think about is getting into bed with you, quite naked, and kissing you.”  
  
“Oh,” was his comment, his eyes opening a bit wider. “I see.”  
  
“I am apparently not as moral a man as I thought,” I continued.  
  
“Ah.” His keen eyes swept up and down my body, then fixed on my face.  
  
“I’ve been thinking about what you said—about that it wasn’t hurtful if both people wanted to do it. Yes, it’s illegal and no, we absolutely cannot let anyone know, but—”  
  
“Can we skip all the discussion and get to the ‘bare with John’ part?”  
  
I laughed in delight. Only Sherlock would be so sweetly blunt. “Yes, of course we can. That’s fine.” I meant that with all my heart. He smiled shyly at me as I drew off his clothing. He really did have a child-like joy when it came to being bare.  
  
“That’s much nicer,” he declared, flopping back onto the mattress and wriggling a bit.  
  
“Are you cold?” I asked solicitously as I removed my own clothing.  
  
“A bit,” he admitted. “But I suspect that we will warm each other up quite quickly.”  
  
“I suspect that you’re correct,” I agreed. I knelt on the bed, leaning over him and kissing him gently on the forehead.  
  
“On my mouth!” he pouted.  
  
I complied, straddling him and capturing his lovely mouth with my own. He reached eagerly for my neck to pull me closer and I playfully caught his hands and pinned them to the mattress on either side of his head. “I’m in command,” I directed.  
  
He shivered in joy, tipping his head up and kissing my chin. I bent my head down so he could reach my lips again. We kissed for a long time. I would occasionally remove my lips from his and kiss his face instead—his sharp cheekbones and pale, domed forehead and his eyelids and his nose and his chin were all within easy reach. I could taste the salt of his perspiration and smiled at it. “You’re warming up,” I commented.  
  
“You are too,” he agreed.  
  
As we proceeded, I could see a change in his expression—it had been blissful and relaxed, and now it was becoming eager. His eyes were dark. Our kisses were becoming more forceful.  
  
“So, no more objections?” he demanded cheekily.  
  
“Clearly not. But you do understand that we will have to be discrete,” I pointed out.  
  
“I’m not very good at that,” he replied a bit sadly.  
  
“Yes, I’ve noticed,” I commented drily. “You will simply have to make more of an effort.”  
  
I released his hands and sat back, beaming down at him. His usually pale skin was flushed and glistened with perspiration. “You are so very lovely,” I told him sincerely. “I adore just looking at you.”  
  
He grinned rather wickedly and took me completely by surprise when he slipped out from under me and suddenly flipped me onto my back.  
  
*  
  
“Oh, my God, Sherlock.” At least that is what I attempted to say. I had—literally—never felt so good in my entire life.  
  
At first, I had had no idea what he was up to. I had been quite happy lying in bed with him; kissing until our lips were swollen and hot. I could have continued, but then there I was, on my back, gazing up at him. “Here,” he had breathed, pushing and pulling me until I was propped against the headboard. He knelt between my legs.  
  
It was then that I realised what he intended to do. I stared, quite literally paralysed by shock. Did he really? Would he really? After all we had talked about?  
  
“I do hope I get this right,” he commented somewhat casually, considering the circumstances. He pushed my legs apart and somehow folded up his gangly frame to fit between. He gently took my organ—which was gloriously stiff—in his hand.  
  
And then he bent forward.  
  
And he took me in his mouth.  
  
“Oh, John,” he breathed. “You taste…” he bent over me again, his mouth open and pressed against my organ. “… exquisite.”  
  



End file.
